


Cherry Wine

by SneakyBleach



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Bottom Quentin Coldwater, Dom/sub Undertones, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Hurt Quentin Coldwater, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, M/M, Mental Health Issues, POV Eliot Waugh, POV Quentin Coldwater, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Margo Hanson, Self-Harm, Spies & Secret Agents, Supportive Eliot Waugh, Top Eliot Waugh, penny isnt a dick, this is my first work ever pls be nice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-20
Updated: 2020-03-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:48:31
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 15,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22338067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SneakyBleach/pseuds/SneakyBleach
Summary: Eliot Waugh and Quentin Coldwater have a job that doesn't exist, it's dangerous and confidential. Eliot doesn't even know how to describe their job. Spies? Assassins? Interrogators? Hit-Squad? They do what they're told, that's the job really. Someone points and they shoot, someone gives them questions and they get answers. Eight months ago Quentin disappeared. A job went bad and Quentin was just plucked from the face of the Earth and Eliot learned that he can't live without him.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 31
Kudos: 78





	1. Like Rum on a Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot’s heart stopped beating eight months ago when Quentin disappeared. Quentin can’t remember what warm feels like.

Chapter 1: Like Rum on a Fire  
———  
Eliot: Present Day  
———

Eliot Waugh was drunk. Again. He stared at the bottle in his hand, now nearing empty. It was a fine scotch, it deserved to be sipped and savored, but he guzzled it down with a fiendish thirst. The alcohol burned as it went down, Eliot relished in its warmth when it filled his belly, and for a moment the cavernous pit where his heart had once been felt soothed. The feeling was fleeting, and the pit was back when his thoughts returned to Quentin. His Quentin.

“You’re mine,” Eliot had said to him the first time they’d made love. “Mine, mine, mine.” His heart said it with every beat. But he wasn’t his. Not anymore, was he? Not really. Quentin was gone, missing, and Eliot’s heart was quiet now. 

It had been so long now Eliot knew better than to think he’d come back to him. Eight months. Eight long, hellish months since Quentin had disappeared on a job and Eliot’s heart had collapsed in on itself like a black hole being born. Deep, deep down Eliot knew he would never see Quentin again, he was dead. Eliot thought he might be dead too. He wanted so desperately to forget, maybe he could live without him if he could forget. Another swig from the bottle. Why couldn’t he just forget?

Eliot’s mind took him back in time and he remembered the first time he saw Quentin Coldwater, the first time that name graced his lips. Quentin had gotten the attention of Eliot’s employers, and they’d recruited Eliot to bring him in for an interview. Eliot’s line of work was complicated and confidential. He wasn’t even sure what his job title would be if he had one. “Spy,” sounded too juvenile, “assassin,” too formal. The job wasn’t one you applied for, because technically speaking, it didn’t exist. They found you. 

It had been five years now since Eliot rapped his knuckles against the dingy door of Quentin’s shoebox apartment. “Quentin Coldwater?” he asked, when the door swung open. 

“Uh, yeah I’m- that’s me. Can I help you?” Quentin stumbled over the words, surprised by the unexpected visitor standing in his doorway.

“You need to come with me.” Eliot replied, not bothering to explain who he was or why he was there, Quentin would learn soon enough. 

“Ok. Um yeah, ok.” Quentin said as he stepped out the door toward the mysterious stranger, he didn’t even ask where they were going. 

_’Ok. Um yeah, ok?’_ Eliot repeated Quentin’s words in his head. His brow creased. He didn’t put up the usual fight, didn’t ask the same exhausting questions they all asked. This one was interesting. _’Yes,’_ Eliot thought _’I like this one.’_

Eliot pushed the memory back and took another desperate drink from the bottle, his white-knuckled fingers strangling its glass neck. His head was swimming now. It was easier to forget like this. The memories didn’t feel so sharp with a hefty dose of alcohol coursing through his veins. Eliot sunk into the couch and stared out the window of the sprawling, penthouse apartment. He’d sleep here tonight, like he did most nights now. The empty space on the right side of their bed turned his stomach to lead when he looked at it. The couch was safer. He could still feel Quentin here, of course, he felt him everywhere: in the shadows, in every corner of their home. But here Quentin didn’t feel so far away. Here he could just be in another room, poring over some obscure book Eliot had never heard of. Here he wasn’t just gone.

Another memory drifts to the forefront and Eliot thinks about the first time they kissed. Nearly half a year had passed since Eliot recruited Quentin, and they’d been assigned to a job together. It was supposed to be short one, they’d be gone for five weeks in some god forsaken part of the jungle in Belize. But things did not go according to plan and five weeks turned into four months. Four months in the jungle, in the wet season, sleeping in a shack that was little more than a tent. The rain didn’t stop for the first three weeks. Eliot remembered Quentin stumbling into their makeshift home one night during those first wet weeks, soaked and shaking like a drowned cat. 

“I hate this place, El.” Quentin groaned as he stripped off his outer layers, and Eliot laughed when the wet sleeves caught around his wrists and he wrestled with the garment to free himself. The black t-shirt he was wearing under his rain slicker was drenched through, the fabric clung to his chest. Eliot watched, his eyes fixed on Quentin, while he dragged the shirt over his head. His wet hair stuck to his face. Eliot reached out and brushed one long strand out of Quentin’s eyes, his fingertips stopped to rest on his cheek. 

Quentin met his gaze, a question crossed his face. And then Eliot was kissing him. Hungry and desperate. His tongue brushed past Quentin’s lips and Quentin _moaned_ into his mouth. Eliot’s breath caught in his throat. Kissing Quentin felt like souls colliding. He never wanted to stop doing this, never wanted to stop touching Quentin. He wanted to know what every inch of his body felt like. What it tasted like. He wanted Quentin to be his.

Eliot choked on the lump in his throat and blinked back hot tears. No. He couldn’t think about this. Every fiber of his being was aching for Quentin. He drained the bottle. Why didn’t he make him stay? Eliot knew that job felt dirty, he’d begged Quentin not to go, but there was no saying “no,” in their business. “I point, you shoot,” Fogg had sternly told him once when he questioned a job. 

Eliot remembered pacing the room while Quentin packed his bag. He didn’t know it then, that this would be their last night together. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but something was wrong. He didn’t like the job, and he hated that Quentin had to do it with Chatwin. Eliot didn’t trust the guy. Martin Chatwin was reckless, and reckless was dangerous. 

“El, you’re wearing a rut in the floor,” Quentin sighed at him “will you please relax? We’ve got Mayakovsky where we want him, it’s an easy job. I’ll be home in a week, two tops.”

Eliot cringed. “Don’t.” He said, his voice low, “Don’t say it’s going to be easy.” Thinking like that made people careless, and Eliot had seen too many people die from carelessness to let Quentin think that way. 

“I’d feel better about this whole thing if you were going with anyone but fucking Chatwin.” Eliot rubbed his temples. “I don’t like this, Q.”

Quentin set down the black pants he was folding and crossed the room to Eliot, draping his arms over the man’s slender shoulders. Eliot folded the shorter man into his arms and held him tight. He held onto him like Quentin was gravity and he was the only thing stopping Eliot from drifting away into space. Quentin tilted his chin up toward Eliot’s face and Eliot met him halfway with a kiss. “Relax,” Quentin mumbled against his lips. He kissed Eliot one more time, soft and quick, before returning to his bag.

In the present a phone rings and Eliot is dragged back to reality, back to a world without Quentin. He groans and pushes himself off the couch, toward that incessant ringing. There’s only one voice he wants to hear on the other end, but he knows it isn’t him. It’s his work phone, Eliot realizes, and he wonders what time it is. He glances at the clock, it’s just after one in the morning. Bleary eyed, he slides his finger across the screen. 

“This is Waugh,” he slurs into the phone. 

Margo’s voice comes through the other end, “We found him, El. We have Quentin.” 

The phone drops to the floor and Eliot sinks to his knees. His body is wracked with sobs. Eliot takes what feels like his first breath in eight months and he can finally feel his heart beating in his chest again. The only thought he can form is _’Quentin. Quentin. Quentin.’_ They found his Quentin.

———  
Quentin: Present Day  
———

It’s so cold here. It’s cold in Quentin’s bones. Does he even remember what it feels like to be warm? How long has it been since he’d turned to ice? He was sure that’s what he was now. Solid ice. He lifts his head off of the concrete floor, wrinkles his nose. The stench of piss and blood fills the room. _'His blood,'_ Quentin remembers. He was sure a person couldn’t bleed that much. He’d seen his share of blood, he’d made it pour from so many people’s veins in the last five years. He was certain this was too much blood.

The walls of this now too familiar room feel like they’re closing in on him. He’d memorized every inch of those walls, counted every crack in the plaster, mapped every spatter of rust-brown blood. He hated those walls. How long had he been staring at them now? How many days, weeks, months had passed since he’d been plucked out of his life and dropped into this frozen hell?

Quentin feels like he is floating, his head bouncing like an old birthday balloon leaching helium. He doesn’t mind the feeling. It’s kind of nice, actually. At least it distracted from the pain that coursed through his body, almost made him forget the cold. He drifts off again and he can hear Eliot’s voice in his head. 

_’Quentin, my sweet Quentin.’_ Even in unconsciousness Eliot’s voice is an anchor that tethers him to Earth. _’I love you, Q. Don’t leave me, Q.’_ He doesn’t want to go. He wants to see Eliot again. Please, God, let him see Eliot again. 

He dreams of the penthouse. It seems bigger in his dreams, expansive even. He can smell the candles Eliot is always burning, their scent is warm and earthy, Quentin can almost forget this is a dream. He turns over in their bed and the left side, Eliot’s side, is empty. A quiet panic pinches in Quentin’s chest. Where is he? He’s supposed to be here. Frantic, Quentin jumps out of the bed. He turns down the hall and it stretches out in front of him. He walks and the hall keeps stretching. He’s running now, trying to reach the end, trying to reach Eliot. The hall is long and longer still. Then it’s twisting and turning. His home has turned into a labyrinth and he doesn’t know how to navigate it. He’s lost. Until finally, mercifully it ends and Eliot is there. He’s been there all along, standing in their kitchen, hunched over the stove. It’s morning and his dark curls are mussed, his eyelids still heavy with sleep. Quentin’s heart stutters with relief.

 _’Hey, baby’_ Eliot smiles at him, wide and bright, _’rise and shine.’_

Noise from above causes Quentin to stir, he ignores it, he wants to go back to his dream. Back to Eliot. Then, Quentin is shaking, for a moment he thinks he’s shivering from the cold. But then he recognizes the weight of a hand on his shoulder, strong and firm. “Coldwater!” Someone is shouting at him. He blinks his eyes, but he just sees those fucking walls and he starts to drift away again. 

“Quentin!” They’re shaking him harder now. Why won’t they leave him alone? He wants to be with Eliot.

“Quentin, you need to wake up. Look at me!” He thinks he recognizes the man’s voice.

“Eliot?” Quentin asks, just barely a whisper. He doesn’t open his eyes. 

“Q, open your eyes.” It’s a woman’s voice now. He knows her. Or he did know her. He’s not sure anymore. Maybe he’s still dreaming. “It’s Margo, Q, look at me. We need to get the _fuck_ out of here. _Now._ ”

Margo. The name stirs something inside him and Quentin opens his eyes to take her in. Her hair is sleek and dark, pulled back into a tight ponytail high on top of her head and her face is speckled with blood. _’Not her blood,’_ Quentin thinks to himself. She’s beautiful, with her wide brown eyes and sun kissed skin. And Quentin remembers. 

“Margo?” His voice cracks. “Can we go home? Please?” 

“Sure, baby.” She smiles at him with wet eyes, the sound of her voice is smooth like whiskey. 

The man’s voice starts again, it’s not Eliot, but Quentin thinks he knows him too. “Can you stand, Coldwater?” 

Quentin shakes his head and looks up at the man. He’s tall, taller than Quentin. His skin is like bronze and his features are sharp. _'Penny,'_ he remembers, as the man scoops him up off the floor in his strong arms. Margo brushes a hand across his forehead, pushing the too long hair away from his face. 

They’re moving now and Quentin thinks he might pass out again. But he has to stay awake, he has to know this is real, he isn’t dreaming, he’s going home. His eyelids feel heavy though, so he lets them close. He’s bouncing, he thinks they’re going upstairs. _'How cruel it would be if this is all a dream,'_ he thinks. He couldn’t bear to wake up in that room again. He pushes the thought away and thinks of Eliot. _’I love you, Q,’_ he hears him say, and Quentin loses consciousness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is my first fic pls be nice. I had a dream about this chapter, and I've been developing it into a story, so here ya go y'all. Pls enjoy :)


	2. The Tide of Your Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin Coldwater's body was made for Eliot Waugh.

Chapter 2: The Tide of Your Breathing

———  
Quentin: Eight Months Ago  
———

“El, I love you, but if you don’t get out of this room right now I’m going to kill you,” Quentin said with a drawn out sigh.

Eliot huffed and glared at him as he left.

Eliot was officially driving him crazy. He’d been obsessing over Quentin’s assignment for weeks now. Quentin didn’t see what he was so worked up over, it was a shorter job than most and straightforward. He and Chatwin were going to the Northern coast of Siberia, they had intelligence Mayakovsky was there. They were to question him and kill him. They’d be in and out in a week, easy. 

He knew how Eliot felt about Chatwin, and Quentin didn’t particularly care for the man either, but this wasn’t his first job with him, far from it. Chatwin had even trained Quentin when he was first brought on the team. People called Martin Chatwin “the Beast.” A name he’d earned from his reputation as a ruthless killer and grade-A asshole. When Chatwin did a job it got done, sure a little messy and not usually according to plan, but he was good at what he did. Eliot had nothing to worry about.

With Eliot breathing over his shoulder and pacing across their room, it had taken Quentin twice as long as usual to get his things together. His clothes were neatly folded to the side of his bag, three black Henleys and three pairs of black utility pants. He set the clothes in his duffle bag and unfurled his knife roll, traced his fingers over the glinting silver. There were thirteen knives and Quentin made sure each blade was clean and sharp before he rolled them back up and put them in the bag. 

It took 20 minutes to finish packing without Eliot’s looming presence and Quentin went to find him, he knew he’d be sulking around the house somewhere. He searched the penthouse, it was bigger than he thought necessary, but Eliot was extravagant and he loved the place. Eliot was sunk into their soft grey couch, staring at the TV but not really watching when Quentin found him. 

“Hey,” he offered. Eliot turned up the TV. 

“El, come on,” Quentin pouted, walking toward the couch. He curled up next to Eliot and nuzzled his face into his shoulder. “I don’t want to spend a week in a frozen wasteland with the taste of a fight in my mouth.”

Eliot answered him with a kiss. It was slow first, and gentle. He traced Quentin’s lips lightly with his tongue and pulled the man into his lap. Quentin straddled his legs and leaned into the kiss. His breath was heavy in his chest. Eliot snaked his hand behind Quentin’s neck and wrapped his fingers in his hair. He tugged gently and pulled back Quentin’s head, exposing his neck; Eliot trailed his collarbone with soft, nibbling bites. Quentin moaned and Eliot sank his teeth into the crook of his neck, soothed the bite with his tongue.

Quentin rubbed his hands across Eliot’s chest, savoring the feeling of firm muscle under his fingers. Eliot was slender, but strong, the shape of lean muscle was always visible under his just too-tight clothes. It made Quentin hungry. Quentin fumbled with the buttons on Eliot’s shirt, too eager to move deftly, until his chest was exposed. His skin was pale, smooth like silk. Quentin planted kisses across the milky white expanse then pulled his own shirt over his head, nearly frantic, desperate to feel his skin against Eliot’s. They could never be close enough. 

Eliot stood from the couch, holding Quentin to his chest with legs wrapped around his waist. He carried him upstairs to their bedroom with ease, like Quentin didn’t weigh anything at all, and tossed him on his back onto the bed. Eliot leaned over Quentin, taking in his body like it was the first time he’d seen it. He tweaked a nipple and Quentin yelped, Eliot chuckled. Eliot shrugged his open shirt off his shoulders, let it fall to the ground. He trailed Quentin’s chest with his fingers, traced the line of dark hair above his waistband and unbuttoned his pants. Quentin lifted his hips off the bed, and Eliot stripped off his pants and boxers in one swift move. Quentin’s erection bobbed against his stomach. 

“I’m going to fuck you tonight, Quentin,” Eliot murmured into Quentin’s ear.  


“Oh, fuck El, please,” Quentin exhaled with a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding. Then Eliot’s mouth is on him, his tongue twirling around the velvety head of Quentin’s cock. Quentin bucked his hips off the bed and Eliot stills him, pressing a firm hand into his waist. Eliot moved his mouth up and down Quentin’s length, his pace is fast but steady. 

“Jesus. Fuck. You feel so good El, don’t stop,” Quentin panted, the wet heat of Eliot’s throat wrapped around him is like heaven. Eliot slowed his pace and Quentin grunts in frustration. Then he slides a hand behind Quentin’s balls, presses a finger against his entrance. Eliot pulls his mouth away from Quentin’s cock and pushes inside him. 

“So eager,” Eliot breathed when he felt Quentin tighten around his finger. “You’re so good for me, Q.” He kisses Quentin, sloppy and wet, and Quentin melted into the feeling of their skin, slick with sweat, sliding against each other. Eliot slipped another finger inside, and Quentin moaned into his mouth. 

“So good, Quentin,” Eliot said with dark eyes. He scissored his fingers inside Quentin, opening him up. Quentin’s body always responded to him so well, moving with him in sync. A third finger now, and, fuck, Quentin is coming undone. Eliot wrapped his hand around Quentin and worked him up and down. 

Quentin doesn’t think he can take it, _“fuck Eliot, I’m going to-”_ and Eliot pulls away. 

“Stand up, turn around,” Eliot tells him gruffly while he unbuttons his pants, the situation becoming pressing. Eliot pushed his pants to his ankles, kicked them them away. He looked at Quentin, so beautiful like that, naked, bent in half over their bed. 

Quentin peered over his shoulder at Eliot, smiled at him with puppy dog eyes. Eliot placed a firm hand on the small of Quentin’s back and pushed two fingers inside him, slid them in and out of him, pressed them into his prostate while he moved. 

Quentin squirmed. “Eliot, please-“ his sentence ended with a whine when Eliot’s fingers pushed against his prostate.

“Please what, baby?” Eliot cooed at him.

“Please just fuck me,” he’s whining again, Eliot loves it when he whines like that.

Eliot is throbbing. He pulls his fingers away and pushes into Quentin. “So good,” he breathes as he sheathes himself slowly. Eliot stills inside him and he gathers Quentin’s wrists behind his back, holds them together with one hand. His other arm wraps around Quentin’s waist, his fingers on his cock, stroking him. 

Then Eliot is slamming into Quentin. Quentin sees white. It seemed like he always forgot how fucking big Eliot was. Fuck, he felt so good. Quentin thinks his body was made for Eliot, sculpted out of clay just for him. He is putty in Eliot’s hands, responding with enthusiasm to his every touch. Quentin feels whole with Eliot inside of him, as close as two people can be. Quentin comes with a shout, spilling onto Eliot’s hand, he feels it in his entire body. Eliot’s thrusts are growing erratic and he stills when he comes inside Quentin. 

After a moment, Eliot pulls out, he is dripping out of him. Eliot climbs into bed and opens his arms to Quentin, he folds himself into Eliot’s side. They should get cleaned up, but it feels so perfect here, pressed into Eliot, he won’t move. 

Quentin closes his eyes when Eliot strokes his hair. “I love you, El,” he tells him.

“Love you, Q.” Eliot presses a kiss to his forehead and they both drift off to sleep. 

———

The next morning Quentin woke before the sun and crept out of the house, careful not to wake Eliot. He didn’t want to fight with him again, he wanted to keep the memory of the night before perfect. Something to keep him warm while he was stuck in a frozen tundra. He left a note for Eliot on his bedside table, _’Gone to Siberia, be back soon. Love you. -Q’_ He knew Eliot would be mad, but he’d make it up to him next week when he came home. 

The trip to their destination in Siberia was awful, Quentin expected as much. The plane ride was long and Chatwin wouldn’t stop humming. Quentin considered throwing him out the emergency exit after just two hours in the air. After they landed there was a drive, hours and hours across the frozen landscape. When they’d driven as far as they could go, they had to hike to the coordinates of their final destination. Quentin hated this part of the job, you’d travel for days, trek through the wilderness, and find you were going to be set up in a tent for weeks. 

Quentin was frozen to the core when they finally arrived, and he sighed in relief when he saw a tiny cabin. It was falling apart and looked like no one had been there for decades, he was just thankful there would be a roof over his head. 

Inside the cabin Chatwin built a fire in the pit dug out in the center of the dirt floor and Quentin used a satellite phone to call Fogg and confirm that they’d arrived. Then he huddled up next to the fire, desperate for its warmth, Quentin hated the cold. 

Chatwin was hunched over his bag, rifling through it and mumbling about something or other and Quentin just rolled his eyes. Two days traveling with him had already pushed Quentin to the limit of Chatwinisms he could tolerate. He was trying to distract himself from his bad mood with thoughts of Eliot when he thought he heard an engine in the distance. That couldn’t be right, they’d had to hike here, over miles and miles, who could be driving out here?

Quentin poked his head outside the cabin door and looked around, in the darkness he could see a handful of small headlights quickly approaching them. “Uh, Chat? I think we’ve got a fucking problem.” Quentin turned around to face his partner, and Martin Chatwin was pointing a gun at him.

———  
Quentin: Present Day  
———

Quentin opened his eyes and the first thing he sees is white. Quentin hates white. The walls in his room are white, but those walls are blood spattered and dirty, these ones are pristine. Where is he? He doesn’t know, so he just closes his eyes.

The next time Quentin wakes he notices the tubes and wires. He doesn’t like them, they feel like they’re tying him down. He pulls at them and a gentle hand rests itself on top of his. “Hey, it’s ok, Q. You’re ok.” A voice says, shushing him. He sounds nice so Quentin listens to him. He falls asleep again. 

The third time Quentin wakes someone is holding his hand. He lifts his head off the bed to see them, it feels heavy on his shoulders. He looks down, the man holding his hand is sitting in a chair beside his bed, his head is resting on the bed inside his folded elbow. Quentin can’t see his face, only his black curls. “Eliot?” He asks quietly. The man stirs and looks up at him, relief floods his eyes. "Hey, El," Quentin smiles his puppy dog smile at him.

“Oh my god, Quentin. Quentin.” Eliot is crying. He squeezes Quentin’s hand and strokes his cheek. “Quentin,” it seems to be the only thing he can manage to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is mostly porn I'm so sorry. Ok I'm really not. Pls enjoy.


	3. Sleep to the Freezing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin comes home.

Chapter 3: Sleep to the Freezing  
———  
Eliot: Present Day  
———

Less than an hour after Eliot received the phone call that righted his world he was on a plane. Margo told him Quentin wouldn’t survive a trip back to New York, so she and Penny brought him to a hospital in Berlin. They had a headquarters there, connections with doctors who wouldn’t ask questions. So, Eliot was going to Germany, left alone on a private jet for nine hours, just his thoughts to keep him company. He wrung his hands, wondered what he’d find when he landed, but Quentin was alive and he was safe, and that was enough for now. Eliot turned a piece of folded paper over in his hands, it was soft from being folded and unfolded, handled so many times over the last eight months. The words scrawled on the paper had become a mantra that kept Eliot grounded, _’be back soon. Love you. -Q’_. Eliot chanted those words in his head.

The cab ride to the hospital somehow felt longer than the flight. Quentin was so close, Eliot was sure he could feel his presence. He raced through the hospital’s halls, his heart was beating in his throat. He nearly burst into Quentin’s room when a hand grabbed his wrist, pulling him away from the door.

“Eliot, wait.” It was Margo, her face was puffy like she’d been crying. “He’s not in good shape, El. Just- be ready, ok?”

Eliot nodded, not meeting her eyes, and steadied himself. He took a deep breath and slid open the glass door that separated him from Quentin. Eliot drew back the curtain behind the door and his breath hitched when he saw him. Quentin looked so small in that bed, tubes and wires stretched out all around him. He was so thin. _’Too thin,’_ Eliot thought. The bones in his hands were knobby, his collarbones too sharp. Eliot gulped back tears when he took in the scars and wounds that marred his lover’s body. He pulled a chair up to the bedside and sat down beside Quentin, wrapping one of his hands into his own. Quentin was broken, but he was here and he was real and he was alive. Eliot put his head on the bed and cried. 

Quentin woke up on a Thursday, it had been ten days since Eliot arrived in Germany, and in all that time he hadn’t once left Quentin’s side. Eliot’s heart soared at the sound of Quentin’s voice, _”Hey, El.”_

“Oh my god, Quentin. Quentin.” Quentin was _smiling_ at him, Eliot had been so sure he’d never see that smile again. He didn’t even realize he was crying, “Quentin.”

He rested a hand on Quentin’s cheek and traced his jaw with a thumb. “I’ve missed you so much, Q, I can’t tell you how much I’ve missed you. I love you,” and then Quentin was crying too. Quentin shifted in the bed and made room for Eliot by his side and Eliot crawled in beside him him, wrapping Quentin in his arms. They stayed like that for hours, neither said a word, they just held each other, making up for lost time.

After Quentin woke up he stopped talking to anyone that wasn’t Eliot, always looked to Eliot for the answer when someone asked him a question, turned away when anyone but Eliot started a conversation with him. He wouldn’t let anyone but Eliot touch him. One day a nurse had startled Quentin awake while she changed a dressing on his stomach. “DON’T FUCKING TOUCH ME!” Quentin had screamed in her face, he scrambled back in the bed and drew his knees up, hugging them to his chest. Quentin rocked back and forth, his head down, and counted the little flowers all in rows on his hospital gown, _’One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One. Two. Three...”_. It took Eliot nearly an hour to calm Quentin, he held the man to his chest and ran his fingers through his hair. “Shh Q, it’s ok. You’re ok. I love you,” Eliot murmured to Quentin as he rocked him. Eliot changed his dressings after that.

Fogg showed up at the hospital four days after Quentin woke up. “Get out,” he said sharply, looking at Eliot when he entered the room.

“Fuck off, Fogg, I’m staying,” Eliot sniped back at him.

“Eliot Waugh, I will not repeat myself.” Another pointed look at Eliot was all it took for him to step out into the hall and leave Quentin’s side for the first time in two weeks.

“I’ll be right outside, baby,” Eliot pressed a kiss to Quentin’s forehead and left the room. In the hall Eliot shook his head and rolled his eyes. Henry Fogg was the only authority figure he’d ever respected enough to listen to. The man had found him nine years ago living on the streets, Eliot was 19 years old. Fogg brought him in after he saw Eliot kill a man in broad daylight on a crowded street, and no one noticed. The man had stood on the corner chatting with Eliot for a few moments before he called him a “faggot” and spat in his face. Eliot stuck his foot out, the movement nearly imperceptible and subtly checked him with his shoulder. The man stumbled into the street and was promptly struck by an oncoming bus, Eliot was already walking away before he hit the pavement and no one paid him any mind. 

Since then Fogg had been a sort of father figure to Eliot, but even he would be the first to admit the man was kind of a prick. “I point, you shoot,” Fogg loved saying that, Eliot hated it when he did. But Henry Fogg had pulled Eliot off of the streets and gave Eliot a life of luxury and extravagance, one that offered him everything he could ever ask for. So, Eliot followed where Henry led and he didn’t talk back. Well, he didn’t talk back much. 

Eliot was surprised to hear Quentin’s muffled voice from his room, it was the first time he’d spoken to anyone but him. The door slid open and he heard Quentin more clearly, “I said get the fuck out of here, Fogg, now.”

Fogg slid the door closed behind him as he left Quentin’s room and turned on his heels to Eliot. Fogg was practically growling when he spoke, “he’s not talking and I need answers yesterday. Get your bitch in line Waugh.” Eliot’s eyes flashed black and he punched Henry Fogg in the face.

———  
Quentin: Present Day  
———

Quentin is going home today. He is excited to see the penthouse again, to look at walls that aren’t white. He’s so tired of the color white. He taps his fingers on his knees while Eliot stands over him, talking with his doctors about things Quentin doesn’t really care about. His fingers bounce thumb to pinky, _’One. Two. Three. Four. Five,’_ Quentin says in his head with each touch. He’s getting restless, Eliot talks too much and this is taking too long. He wants to go home now. He tugs on the hem of Eliot’s shirt, wordlessly grabbing his attention. “Just a minute, baby,” Eliot says to Quentin, but he holds onto his hand.

The flight home is long, but uneventful. Quentin curled up with his head in Eliot’s lap, he slept nearly the entire trip. When they landed Eliot brushed his hand through Quentin’s hair, leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “Wake up, Q, we’re here.” Quentin looks out the window, it’s dark and he can see the lights of the city sprawling all around them. Quentin thinks it’s beautiful. 

Eliot helps him to his feet and lets Quentin push against him for support while they cross the tarmac to the town car waiting for them. Quentin is still weak and the effort it takes to walk to the car exhausts him, he wishes they were home already. 

A little while later Quentin and Eliot are standing in an elevator, moving through the building to their penthouse apartment. The elevator moves quickly and it makes Quentin’s stomach drop. Was it always this fast? The doors open directly into their apartment and Quentin takes in their home, it’s bigger than he remembers, bigger even than in his dreams. He breathes in the familiar scent of Eliot that surrounds him. He thinks he should be able to relax now, but something is nagging in the back of his mind. He’s scared. Quentin wants to look around the house and make sure it’s as he remembers, make sure it’s real, but Eliot insists he lay down. He’ll take him for a tour of the home Quentin has lived in for years in the morning. 

Quentin makes it up five stairs before he is leaning heavily into Eliot’s side. Eliot notices that he’s struggling with the climb and he scoops Quentin into his arms. He climbs the stairs with Quentin and deposits him gently in their bed. “Sleep, Q. I’ll be just down the hall,” Eliot says with a kiss, and heads for the door.

“Eliot?” Quentin’s voice stops him. “Leave the lights on, please.”

Quentin’s sleep is fitful, he dreams of the cold and of white walls. He’s confused when he wakes up, he’s not sure where he is. It seems familiar to him, this place, but with his head still foggy from sleep he could just be dreaming. He turns to his side, the left side of the bed is empty. Is it usually empty? He doesn’t think so, at least it isn’t in his dreams. “ELIOT?”

Footsteps bound down the hall and the door swings open, Eliot crosses the room to Quentin with long strides. “Quentin? What’s wrong, what happened?”

“Nothing. I just-“ Quentin shakes his head, he doesn’t remember why he feels so scared. He’s embarrassed that he called Eliot in here for nothing. “Um. Can you start the shower for me?”

“Q, baby, I’ll do anything for you,” Eliot says to him and goes to the bathroom to run a shower for Quentin.

Eliot helps Quentin undress and guides him into the shower. The hot water pelts against Quentin’s skin and it feels so good he turns it hotter. It’s almost scalding. “I think I’ve got it from here,” he says to Eliot, and listens for his footsteps leaving the room. The door closes behind Eliot and Quentin sinks to the ground, his back sliding down the slick shower wall. He curls himself up, knees to chest, and rocks back and forth. _”One. Two. Three. Four. Five. One...’_ His breath is shallow and rapid. It’s so hot in here now, The steam is stifling, the walls of this too big shower are shrinking around Quentin. Quentin reaches for the knob and twists it all the way in the wrong direction, until the water is cold as ice. He shivers under the freezing water and chokes on sobs he doesn’t want Eliot to hear. He must have fallen asleep under that cold spray, because the next thing he knows Eliot is pulling him out of the shower. 

“Jesus Christ, Quentin! You’ve been in here for 45 minutes, the water is freezing. What are you doing?” Eliot is soaking wet, he wraps a towel around Quentin’s shaking shoulders. 

Quentin doesn’t say anything, and he lets Eliot carry him back to bed. Eliot climbs into bed with him and wraps himself around Quentin. His skin is ice cold. Eliot rubs his hands up and down Quentin’s arms, trying to warm him. For the first time, Quentin draws away from Eliot’s touch.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like this little chapter. Prepare yourselves! Angst is coming, ya’ll.


	4. Blood is Red

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot worries over Quentin. Quentin receives on the job training.

Chapter 4: Blood is Red  
———  
Eliot: Present Day  
———

Quentin and Eliot had been back home for two weeks now and every day Quentin grew more withdrawn. He hardly talked to Eliot anymore, he’d taken to shaking his head and shrugging his shoulders as his primary means of communication. He shied away from Eliot’s touch, and Eliot felt a stabbing in his chest every time he did. Margo and Julia had come to visit a few days ago, Eliot thought it might raise his spirits to see his friends. Quentin retreated up the stairs to their bedroom when they arrived, not even acknowledging they were there.

Eliot tried everything he could think of to draw Quentin out of his shell, he put on his favorites movies, cooked him his favorite meals. Once he suggested they take a walk in the park, the mention of leaving the apartment sent Quentin into a panic. Nothing was working, and Eliot never knew what would set Quentin off. He’d brought him breakfast in bed one morning, steel cut oats with brown sugar, fresh fruit, and bacon, Quentin took one look at the tray and hurled it across the room before he curled back into himself and pulled the blankets over his head again. 

At night Eliot slept in their bed, on top of the blankets, as much space as possible separating him from Quentin. The empty inches between them felt like an impassable canyon. Quentin hardly ever slept through the night now, whatever was haunting him woke him with screams nearly every night. It was the only time he’d let Eliot touch him, scooting across the bed and burying himself into Eliot’s chest. Eliot couldn’t stand that this was what it took to be close to Quentin now. He’d draw the man into his strong arms and hold him. “It’s ok, Q. You’re safe,” he’d whisper in Quentin’s ear until his breathing steadied and he sank back into sleep. He wished Quentin would tell him what was wrong. That he’d tell him anything, really. Eliot’s heart was breaking but he’d stay beside Quentin for a hundred lifetimes, even if Quentin never touched him again, never uttered another word to him. 

Eliot worried over Quentin every minute of every day. After the incident with the ice cold shower on their first night home he started checking in on Quentin every fifteen or twenty minutes, always coming up with some excuse to wander into their room where Quentin had holed himself up. Eliot never left the house now, afraid to leave Quentin alone for too long, so Margo brought them groceries and delivered Manila folders sent by Fogg to Eliot, his work never really stopped. 

Today Eliot was sitting in his office, looking over the dossier that Margo had brought him for his team’s latest assignment. The office was all dark wood and leather. Decorated with fine antiques and tall, burning candles. He worked well in this room, always felt focused here, but today he was distracted. Eliot glanced back down at the folder open on his desk. Fogg decided who was sent on each job, but Eliot headed their team and he had to attend to the fine details of every mission. Eliot hated this part of his job, Quentin usually helped him make sense of the intelligence that had been gathered and he was feeling lost today while he stared at the files. Eliot looked up at the clock after what felt like just a few minutes. _’Shit,’_ he thought when he realized he’d been working for almost an hour and he hadn’t checked in on Quentin yet. 

Eliot loped down the hall to their room, his walk was graceful, the stride of his long legs always made it look like he was gliding over the floor. He knocked softly and opened the door, peeking his head through the door frame.

“Q?” Eliot called into the room and glanced around. He looked to Quentin’s spot on their bed, he wasn’t there. “Quentin?” He asked, as he stepped into the bedroom.

Eliot heard water running in the en suite bathroom. Quentin was probably in the shower, standing under a freezing spray. He’d taken to cold showers since coming home. It worried Eliot, but the icy water seemed to calm Quentin so he let him do it, making sure he didn’t stay in there for too long. Eliot entered the bathroom, he didn’t know how long Quentin had been in the shower, but he was sure it had been long enough. 

“You ok in there?” Eliot wasn’t surprised when he was answered with silence. 

Eliot peered around the tiled wall of the massive shower and bile rose in his throat when he saw a river of crimson blood swirling down the drain. Quentin was slumped over in the corner. He was white as a sheet. His eyes were closed, his breaths shallow and irregular. Both of Quentin’s arms were marked with deep, angry red gashes, wrist to elbow, a bloodied scalpel was dropped beside him on the grey stone floor. 

———  
Quentin: Five Years Ago  
———

Quentin followed the handsome stranger at his door to a black town car waiting in the street. He’d felt so drawn to the man when he saw him, he didn’t even question how crazy it was that he’d just gone with him. Quentin slid into the back seat beside him, the solid partition that separated them from the driver was raised, the windows were tinted so dark they were nearly opaque. 

“Eliot Waugh,” the man finally introduced himself with an outstretched hand. 

Quentin shook Eliot’s hand and blushed, then cleared his throat. “So, uh, where exactly are we going?” Quentin inquired.

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Eliot said. He left it at that. 

They rode in silence for over an hour, the blacked out windows preventing Quentin from having a clue where they were going. When the car stalled Eliot reached across Quentin and opened his door for him. “Come along, Quentin, you’re late for your interview.”

Quentin didn’t know how he could be late for an interview he didn’t even know about, but he went along with Eliot anyway. They entered a building that appeared to be an abandoned warehouse. _’An empty warehouse, great. He’s definitely going to murder me,’_ Quentin thought, but he followed Eliot into the damp basement without hesitation. Quentin wondered if he had a death wish he was acting on, this was the stupidest thing he had ever done.

The basement was a single room, expansive and mostly empty save for a desk in the center of the room. A man sat at the desk, he was older than Quentin by a few decades. His skin was the color of dark umber, his head bald. He was wearing round sunglasses and a sharply pressed suit, navy with barely there pinstripes. He oozed authority. 

“Quentin!” The man said brightly, “Have a seat,” he gestured to the empty chair in front of the desk. 

Quentin did as he was told and sat in front of the man. “Henry Fogg,” he reached across the desk and shook Quentin’s hand firmly. “I’d like you to work for me, Mr. Coldwater. Now, I’m not quite sure how _you_ found _us,_ but I know you managed to break through our firewalls and I’m quite impressed. Most people who know about us aren’t long for this world, but no one has ever done what you did, Quentin, and I’m sure I can make use of your skills here.”

Quentin was great with a computer, magic even, and hacking into things no one was supposed to see was a favorite hobby of his. Sitting in that empty warehouse, Quentin started to think he’d fucked with the wrong people this time. “What do you do here, exactly?” Quentin asked him. 

“That is classified.” Fogg answered. “If your application is approved, and you pass a practical exam, then, and only then, will you be filled in on who we are and what we do. Our organization has no name and on paper it does not exist. If you decline to be interviewed you will not be leaving this building, we can’t have civilians walking around knowing about us.” 

“I guess I can’t really say no, can I?” Quentin says.

“No, Mr. Coldwater, you cannot.”

Quentin then proceeded to fill out the strangest job application he had ever seen. It asked questions like, “How many living relatives do you have? Would anyone look for you if you disappeared? Have you ever taken a life (human or otherwise)?” When he was finished Quentin pushed the pages across the desk and Fogg looked them over.

“Very well, this all seems to be in order,” Fogg said to him. “Follow me.”

They climbed the stairs to the 3rd floor of the building. Eliot was waiting there for them with another man, between them a woman was tied to a chair, her arms behind her back. Quentin stumbled backward when he saw her, she looked at him with wild eyes. 

Eliot’s voice broke the silence that filled the room, “Quentin, I’d like you to meet Martin Chatwin,” he said, motioning to the man beside him, “Chatwin, this is Quentin Coldwater.”

“Hello, Quentin,” Martin Chatwin drawled in a posh English accent. “We’re going to have some fun together this evening. This is Marina, she has information that we need and she’s being so very tight-lipped about it. I’d like you to get some answers out of her.”

“What the fuck is that supposed to mean?” Quentin almost laughed. He looked over at Eliot, hoping he would shed light on the very fucked up situation Quentin had found himself in. 

Eliot just shrugged. “Have fun, Quentin,” he said as he and Fogg left the room.

Chatwin stared into Quentin’s eyes and gestured toward the table to his left. An array of knives and scalpels was laid out neatly, a single piece of paper beside them. Chatwin took the paper and handed it to Quentin. “Here you are Mr. Coldwater, these are the questions you will make her answer. If you want to leave here alive I suggest you don’t fuck it up.” He passed a silver scalpel to Quentin. “Begin,” he said to him, a glint in his eyes. 

Quentin was going to throw up. What the fuck had he gotten himself into? “I- I don’t really know what you want me to do here,” he looked at Chatwin, the man’s eyes darkened.

“It’s simple. You ask her the questions on that paper, and if she doesn’t answer you make her bleed until she does. Do you understand?”

Quentin nodded but his hands were shaking, he looked at the paper and glossed over its questions. Quentin cleared his throat and stepped toward Marina. “Who- um- who are you working for?” Marina spat in his face. 

Quentin stumbled. Fuck, he couldn’t do this, he was going to die tonight. He set the scalpel back on the table, bent over and wretched. 

“Oh, Quentin, you’re going to have to grow some balls if you want to go home tonight. Now. _Make her answer you._ ” Martin hissed at him, he looked crazed. 

_’Ok, fuck. I can do this,’_ Quentin told himself. He took a few deep breaths, his palms laid flat on the table, and picked the scalpel back up. Quentin sucked in a deep breath and pressed the blade to the inside of his bicep, dragged it down to the crook of his elbow. He exhaled as he did so, the feeling of the knife on his skin brought him clarity. He didn’t know it yet, that this would become a ritualistic part of his process, that in five years the insides of his arms would be lined with scars, each one representing one of his assignments, too many to count. He took a step toward Marina. 

He heard Chatwin chuckle, dark and maniacal, “Excellent, Mr. Coldwater. You are just full of surprises.”

The sensation of warm blood dripping down his arm kept Quentin centered while he questioned Marina. When he felt himself falter he pressed a thumb into the cut, it cleared his head. He drew information from her with ease. It frightened him how quickly he took to this, like a fish to water.

Hours and hours later, after he’d finally gotten an answer to every question on his paper, Quentin was allowed to leave. Sweat beaded his forehead and his shirt was soaked with blood, the rusty smell of it clinging to the inside of his nose. The sound of Marina’s screams reverberated in his ears. He retreated quickly down the stairs and was met by Eliot, who handed him a check. Quentin glanced at it and barked at the amount. “This is five thousand dollars!” He nearly shouted.

“Consider it your sign on bonus,” Eliot said, and he escorted Quentin from the building. The two of them got back into the town car and as they pulled away the sound of a single gunshot echoed off behind them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was going to finish this up tomorrow and post in the morning, but work is slow and I’m so excited about this chapter. As usual, pls enjoy :)


	5. From Eden

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin has to get better. Eliot falls in love in the jungle.

Chapter 5: From Eden  
———  
Quentin: Present Day  
———

Quentin was surrounded by white walls once again, he looked around the unfamiliar room and groaned. He was in a hospital he realized, noticing the stark, clean bandages wrapped around his arms. _’Fuck, fuck, FUCK,’_ he screamed inside his head. He remembered standing in the shower, blade in hand, and digging the cold metal down into his arms.

He hadn’t been trying to kill himself, not really, not at first. He’d hesitated with the first slice, but his breathing slowed and his head felt clear for the first time in months when he watched blood blooming from the shallow cut. He traced over it again, harder and deeper this time, over and over, before he moved on to the other arm. He’d carved twin caverns into his arms and was lightheaded from blood loss when he sank down against the tile walls. That was the last thing he could remember before he woke up in this white room. 

He was surprised to find Eliot wasn’t there when he woke. On the first day the only people Quentin saw were doctors and nurses, they flitted in and out of his room, checking in frequently to make sure he didn’t try to off himself again. On the second day a therapist came to talk with him. Quentin thought that was laughable. What would he even say to a therapist, _’I have a lucrative job as a hired killer and intelligence agent and spent the last eight months being tortured in Siberia by my backstabbing partner’_? No, he couldn’t talk to her, Fogg would probably come to the hospital and finish what Quentin had started if he did.

Margo was the first one to visit him. “You can’t scare us like that again, Q,” she told him. She reached out to stroke his hair, but hesitated when she saw fear flash in his eyes and dropped her hand. Quentin didn’t say anything for a long time and Margo just sat with him. 

“Margo?” He asked after some time in the silence. “Where’s Eliot?”

Margo shrugged. “Drunk somewhere, probably.”

Quentin nodded, that sounded about right. He didn’t really want to see Eliot yet, he wasn’t ready to face him, but he still needed to know that he was ok. Margo stayed for a while, she left when Quentin fell asleep.

Julia came to see him the day after Margo visited. Quentin was surprised that he was excited to see her, he’d missed her kind smile more than he realized. Even Penny and Kady stopped by, which was...weird. He liked Penny and Kady well enough but he wouldn’t really consider them close friends. Workplace acquaintances, maybe, but not friends. 

Every day that Eliot stayed away Quentin grew more torn between worry and relief. He so desperately craved Eliot’s presence but he couldn’t bear the idea of looking into his eyes and facing what he’d done. When Eliot finally arrived Quentin had been in the hospital for four days. He laid on his side in the bed, his back to the door. He recognized Eliot by the sound of his footsteps. He wasn’t ready for this yet. 

“Please leave, Eliot,” he pulled the blanket over his head.

“Quentin, look at me,” Eliot said, gentle but stern. A long moment passed before Quentin sighed and turned around. Eliot had dark circles around his eyes. He smelled like a hangover, the scent of the last night’s liquor seeping from his pores. 

“I need you to listen to me very carefully,” his tone was serious. “I’m sorry I haven’t been here for you. When I found you that night I- I thought I’d lost you again, Q. It broke me. I couldn’t let you see me like that. I love you so much Quentin, you can’t understand how much I love you. I need you like I need air. I’ve had to live without you once and I do not care to do it again.”

“I know. I know, Eliot. I’m so sorry. I-“

“Don’t apologize,” Eliot cut him off. “Q, if you don’t want to talk to me about what happened to you, that’s fine, I’m not going to push you. But you will talk to someone. You have to get better.”

Quentin blinked back tears and nodded. 

“I’ve arranged for someone to come see you tomorrow, her name is Dr. Lipson. You can talk freely with her, Fogg has cleared her and he assures me that she’ll be discreet,” he told him. Quentin nodded at him again, keeping his eyes pointed down. 

“Get some rest, love. I’ll come see you tomorrow,” Eliot said and he turned toward the door.

“Eliot, wait,” Quentin stopped him. “Will you stay with me?” 

“Whatever you want, Q.” Eliot sat on the edge of his bed, and Quentin took his hand.

“I’m sorry I tried to leave. I just-“ Quentin’s voice was caught in his throat.

Eliot shushed him. “I know, baby,” he said, rubbing circles in Quentin’s palm with his thumb.

———  
Eliot: Five Years Ago  
———

The sound of rain pelted the little shack in the jungle, the air was thick and wet. Eliot hadn’t felt dry in days and the downpour outside was becoming oppressive. The rain was steady, but it seemed to be slowing. It couldn’t possibly go on like this for much longer, he thought, it had been raining for weeks with no end in sight.

His mood always lifted when he looked at Quentin though, he was like a ray of bright sunshine. He’d grown incredibly fond of the man in the few months since he first stood outside his door. He was always finding excuses to be around him. He feigned confusion at work he’d been doing alone for years, asking Quentin to help him and he’d taken to dropping by Quentin’s apartment unannounced because he was “in the neighborhood.” A few times he even convinced Fogg to let him trade assignments with Penny or Kady so he could spend days on end with him, traveling the globe, holed up together in far off places. 

Eliot had kissed Quentin for the first time the night before and the moment their lips touched he knew without a doubt that he was utterly in love with him. He’d move Heaven and Earth for him if he had to. Eliot couldn’t keep his hands off of him now, but Quentin didn’t seem to mind. They were drawn to each other like magnets.

“Quentin, wake up, I want to show you something,” Eliot shook Quentin’s shoulder, rousing him from a deep sleep. It was early in the morning, the sky was still dark but the rain had stopped and the clouds were finally parting. Quentin sat up in his cot and wiped sleep from his eyes. Eliot offered him a hand and led him out into the jungle.

“This better be fucking good, El.” Quentin was so grouchy in the morning, Eliot was learning. 

They hiked through the trees together, Quentin trailing just behind Eliot. They weren’t going far but the thick brush slowed them and made the trip feel miles long. After half an hour Eliot stopped and waved Quentin over to him. They were standing on a high point, overlooking the jungle. Eliot stood behind Quentin and wrapped his arms around his waist, he rested his chin on the top of Quentin’s head. The sun was just rising now, peeking over the emerald green canopy and it painted the sky neon, a thousand shades of yellow, pink, and red. 

Quentin gasped, “Oh my God, Eliot. I’ve never seen anything like this.” Eliot grinned down at him and Quentin turned in his arms to face him. “Thank you for showing me.”

Eliot stared at him, the sunrise may have been beautiful, but Quentin was perfect. He put a finger under Quentin’s chin and tilted his face up, he took him with a hungry kiss. Quentin’s lips parted and Eliot pushed his tongue between them. God, he tasted so good. He wondered how he’d ever lived before this, not knowing what Quentin tasted like. He slid his hands around Quentin’s waist, cupped his ass and squeezed. Quentin responded eagerly, curling his fingers into Eliot’s hair, crushing their mouths together.

They collapsed into each other, drinking each other in like water in a desert. Eliot wanted this moment to last forever. He moved against Quentin, pressing his growing hardness into him. They pulled apart for a moment, catching their breath and Eliot stared into Quentin’s eyes, full of longing. Eliot slipped his hand between them, beneath the waistband of Quentin’s pants and rubbed him through his underwear with slender fingers. Quentin moaned at the touch, he fumbled with the button of Eliot’s pants and freed his erection.

Quentin was on his knees now, gently stroking Eliot and looking up at him through long lashes. He leaned forward and ran his tongue down Eliot’s length. He shuddered and Quentin took him into his mouth with enthusiasm. Eliot felt his body come alive when the wet heat of Quentin’s mouth surrounded his cock. He grabbed Quentin by his hair, gently guided his head up and down. He’d never seen anything so beautiful, the sunrise that surrounded them paled in comparison to the sight of Quentin on his knees, his mouth around Eliot. Eliot pulled Quentin off of him and pushed him onto his back and pulled Quentin’s pants down around his knees.

“I want to make you feel good,” Eliot said to him, straddling Quentin’s hips. “Let me make you feel good, Q.”

The grass was soft and wet beneath them, the sounds of the jungle were like a symphony. Eliot worked Quentin rhythmically, savoring every inch of him. Beneath him, Quentin was melting. Eliot traced a finger around Quentin’s rim, pushing against it slightly with each pass. 

“Eliot, please,” Quentin was whining at him. Eliot smirked. He liked that, hearing Quentin whine for him. Eliot pushed his finger into him slowly, pausing for a moment when each knuckle passed the tight rim. He moved in and out of Quentin, hooking his finger with each stroke. 

Quentin was unraveling when Eliot pushed another finger inside him. Eliot worked his fingers inside Quentin, stretching him. He smiled at how eagerly Quentin took him, clenching around him, sucking him in. He could do this forever. He fingered him like that until Quentin was whining again, and slid a third finger inside. He groaned at the stretch, but still pushed back onto Eliot’s hand.

Eliot pulled his other hand away from Quentin’s cock and reached up to brush his hair out of his puppy dog eyes. He pressed his mouth to Quentin’s, the kiss was firm but gentle. 

“You’re so good, Q,” Eliot whispered into Quentin’s ear and Quentin whimpered in return. He pulled his fingers out of Quentin and positioned himself over him. 

“Eliot -“ Quentin moaned, and Eliot pushed inside him. He moved slowly, pushing further with small thrusts. Quentin gripped the grass beneath him in his fists. Eliot paused for a moment, letting Quentin stretch around his dick. “More, Eliot,” Quentin said with pleading eyes.

Eliot thrust into Quentin and felt himself come alive. It felt like waking up from a dream. Like his life hadn’t really been his life until this moment. Until he was with Quentin. He moved in and out of Quentin, his pace was sure and slow. His fingers wrapped around Quentin’s cock and he moved his hand in rhythm with his hips. 

“You’re so tight, Quentin. You feel so fucking good,” Eliot’s voice was strangled as he quickened his pace. He took Quentin’s chin in his hand and turned his face to look at him. He held him there, staring into his eyes as he moved wildly inside of Quentin. 

“You’re mine.” Eliot said, he heard the words echo in his chest, _’Mine. Mine. Mine.’_ Beneath him, Quentin was coming, he clenched around Eliot and the muscles in his thighs were shaking.

“Yours,” Quentin breathed to him through his orgasm. Eliot felt his abdomen seize, his strokes were frantic, unsteady. His vision turned white when he filled Quentin and he shouted when he came. 

They laid together in that grass for hours, watching the sun move across the bright blue sky. Eliot felt whole for the first time in his life and he knew, _’I will never let this go.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it’s been a few days, ya girl’s been busy and I had some trouble writing this chapter. Sorry about the smut y’all (you know I’m not though). Pls enjoy :)


	6. Crawl Home to Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin opens up.

Chapter 6: Crawl Home to Me  
———  
Eliot: Present Day  
———

Quentin was home and Eliot was scared. All the time. When his eyes closed he saw a whirlpool of crimson blood, swirling down the drain. The angry red lines that marked Quentin’s arms nauseated him. How could he have let Quentin do that to himself? He’d almost lost him again. How could he have failed him like that?

A soft knock at the door of his study pulled Eliot out of his spiraling thoughts. He looked up from the papers he hadn’t really been reading to see Quentin standing in the doorway. 

“What’re you working on?” Quentin asked him sheepishly. It was nearly two in the morning, his pajamas were wrinkled and his hair was messy from a fitful sleep.

“Julia and Penny are going to Paris next week, I’m just going over the case and making some arrangements for them. Can’t sleep?”

Quentin shook his head, ran his fingers through his hair. “Can I help?”

“I’d love that,” Eliot smiled at him. “Here, can you start going through some of files and flag anything that stands out to you?”

Quentin grabbed the stack of folders from Eliot’s desk and settled into the plush velvet armchair that sat in the corner of the room. The two of them worked mostly in silence, occasionally bouncing ideas off each other about the mundane files they pored over. It was strange to sit here together like this, falling into the familiar routine of work. It almost felt as if the last nine months hadn’t even happened, like Quentin had been here all along. 

After some time Eliot could sense Quentin growing restless, he was fidgeting in his seat, biting at the skin around his fingernails like he did when he was anxious. “You doing alright, Q? Ready to get back to bed?”

Quentin looked down and picked at the hangnail he’d just chewed free. “Uh, yeah...no, I was just thinking. It’s just- um, Dr. Lipson says I should talk to you. About what happened, I mean. If, um, if I want to.”

“Ok. Do you want to?” Eliot asked him, his voice was soft and concerned. Quentin nodded, he didn’t meet Eliot’s gaze. 

Eliot stood from his desk and crossed the room, he reached a hand out to Quentin. “Alright, let’s sit in the kitchen and I’ll put on some tea.”

In the kitchen Quentin sat at the table with his feet up on the chair, knees tucked against his chest. Eliot draped a blanket over Quentin’s shoulders then put a kettle on the stove before he took a seat beside him. Quentin picked at his fingers some more, he was quiet for a long time but Eliot didn’t dare break the deafening silence. He rested a hand, gentle and reassuring, on Quentin’s shoulder. Minutes that felt like hours passed before Quentin cleared his throat and looked up at Eliot. 

“Do you remember the fight we had about the Mayakovsky job the night before I left?” Quentin asked. Eliot nodded. “I thought about that fight a lot while I was gone. I was so mad that you were right.”

“Quentin...” Eliot started to protest but Quentin held up a hand and he bit his tongue.

“You couldn’t have known what was going to happen, but you were right. That job was dirty. Chatwin, he’d been working for Mayakovsky for months. Apparently his loyalties lie with the highest bidder.”

Quentin was fidgeting again, he tugged absentmindedly at a strand of hair and Eliot took his hand. “We hadn’t even been on location for an hour before Chat turned his gun on me. I was stupid, I wasn’t armed. I just had to do what he said, I couldn’t even try to stop him. He made me get on my knees and cuff myself. Then he hit me over the head with something, um, his gun, I think? That part is fuzzy. A lot of it after that is fuzzy.”

Eliot was seeing red. _’The highest fucking bidder?’_ Everything that had happened to Quentin happened for fucking money? Martin Chatwin was a dead man walking, Eliot would hunt him to the end of the Earth. He could feel his rage steeping into the room and tried to calm himself for Quentin’s sake. He closed his eyes for a moment and took a deep breath in through his nose, held it while he counted to ten, and exhaled slowly. It didn’t really help but it steadied him enough to keep listening.

“I woke up in a room by myself,” Quentin started again. “I don’t really know how long I waited there, hours I guess, before Chatwin showed up. He told me he had a job for me to do, and if I did it he’d let me go. He wanted me to hack into our system like I did before I got hired. He knew I built the new firewalls, so he figured I was the only person who could get through them.”

Quentin sucked in a shaky breath and Eliot squeezed his hand. “Um, then I told him to fuck off, and Chatwin started doing what he does best.”

He didn’t need to elaborate, Eliot knew what that meant. Chatwin was almost magic when it came to hurting people, like it was his second nature. Give Martin Chatwin a weapon, knife or car battery or anything in between, and people started talking. In all the years they’d worked together, Eliot had never seen him fail to get what he wanted from his target. _”Everyone breaks,”_ he could hear Chatwin saying in his head. His blood was boiling again when he imagined Chatwin doing to Quentin what he’d seen him do to so many others before. 

Quentin was quiet again, his breathing was growing fast and ragged, his cheeks were streaked with tears. Whatever he was remembering now he didn’t say, but Eliot could see he was edging into panic.

“That’s enough for tonight, Q, its late,” Eliot spoke softly. “Come up to bed with me?”

Wordlessly, Quentin rose from his chair and followed Eliot upstairs. They crawled into bed together and Quentin curled himself into Eliot’s side, his face pressed into his chest. Eliot held him there and ran his fingers through Quentin’s messy hair until he felt the rise and fall of his chest slow. He laid awake until morning, simmering in his anger, with Quentin wrapped up in his arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi, hi, hi! I’m sorry I know its been a hot minute since I updated, work is crazy and I just moved so writing time has been at an all time low. I’ve finally got some ideas flowing again too, so I’m planning on another, longer chapter in the next few days. In the meantime, here’s a short little chapter for y’all. Pls enjoy :)


	7. Some Frozen Devotion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Quentin and Chatwin play a game. Eliot is keeping secrets.
> 
> CW: rape/non-con (nothing super graphic, just an FYI)

Chapter 7: Some Frozen Devotion  
———  
Quentin: Six Months Ago  
———

It was impossible for Quentin to know how long he’d been in this room, the only measure of time he had was from the meager meals that were brought to him most mornings. Some days they didn’t come though, and that made it harder to keep track. He figured he’d been here at least two months, maybe three. It didn’t really matter to him anymore, he’d resigned himself to the fact that he’d die here.

Chatwin came to work his magic regularly and the longer Quentin resisted him the more creative he got. The sound of footsteps on the stairs made Quentin’s chest clench with panic, he never knew what to expect when Chatwin came for him. He didn’t know if that was the worst part of this fate though; the boredom of being surrounded by the same white walls, day in and day out, was enough to make him insane. 

At first he passed his time thinking of Eliot, remembering the last night they’d spent together. On good days he remembered how they’d made love that night, on bad days he remembered their fight. But after a while the memories of Eliot brought him more pain than relief. He knew he’d never see him again and that hurt more than anything Chatwin could do to him. So, he’d taken to counting the droplets of blood that freckled the walls, tracing the cracks in the concrete floor, _’one, two, three, four, five, one, two, three...’_

Quentin was counting the water stains that marked the ceiling when he heard the thundering of footsteps on the stairs leading to his room. He spent a moment memorizing the shape of a water stain that looked like a little dog, he didn’t want to forget where he left off when Chatwin interrupted him. The door swung open and the room was filled with cheerful whistling when Martin Chatwin entered.

“Hello Quentin, I’ve missed you,” Chatwin taunted, it had been days since he’d last visited. “I’m so sure you’ve missed me too.”

Quentin didn’t bother answering. He just stared straight up at the ceiling, at that little dog, and flipped Chatwin the bird. He knew he’d pay for that tonight, but pissing off Chatwin was one of the few sources of entertainment he had left, it was almost worth it. Chatwin tutted his tongue against his teeth. 

“Now that was very rude of you, Quentin. I thought I’d taught you better than that.” He walked to Quentin and grabbed him by his hair, pulling him to his feet. “Get up.”

At this point Chatwin had to know he’d never get Quentin to break, this was just a twisted game for him now. He seemed to revel in coming up with new ways to torture Quentin. He rarely surprised him anymore though, there were really only so many ways you could hurt a person. Quentin wondered what Chatwin had come up with for tonight, he just wanted to get it over with so he could go back to counting the stained ceiling. 

“Do you remember the night we met, Quentin? You interrogated that girl so beautifully. I’ve forgotten, what was her name?”

“Marina,” Quentin answered, he couldn’t forget her if he tried.

“Ah, Marina, yes. I was so amused watching you take that scalpel to your arm before you started in on her. So...surprised.” Chatwin gripped Quentin’s face tightly by his chin and stared down at him. “I want to watch you do it again.”

Chatwin reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, folded knife. The blade gleamed in the light when he flicked it open and handed it over. Quentin stared at the knife and turned it over in his hand, he pressed the tip against his thumb, testing it. It was razor sharp, a drop of blood welled up on his finger. Quentin wondered for a moment if he could turn the knife on Chatwin, but he knew he was too injured, too weak, to take the man on. 

“Go on then, don’t be shy,” Chatwin said as he ran a finger down one of the white lines mapped on Quentin’s arm.

There was something unsettling in Chatwin’s eyes. A hunger Quentin hadn’t seen before. He sucked in a deep breath and stared down at his arms, searching for a spot to run the knife across. Both of his biceps were marked with parallel, vertical lines. Each one cut into him with precision, each spot chosen with care. They represented every job he’d completed, it was a sacred ritual to him, he hated to add a mark that didn’t belong.

After some hesitation Quentin pressed the blade against his arm, he held his breath while he dragged it down his skin. The cut was perfectly straight, scarlet blood pooled at the edges. Quentin looked at it with fascination, he pressed a thumb into the cut, sharp pain shot down his arm. For the first time in God knows how long his head didn’t feel so muddled, he could almost think clearly.

Chatwin’s manic chuckling ripped Quentin from the brief moment of clarity he felt. “I’ve always so enjoyed watching this part of your process, Quentin. Again.”

It went on like that for a while, Quentin carved up his arms and Chatwin relished in it as he watched. Eventually Chatwin grew bored of his new game, he took the knife and returned it to his pocket. Quentin figured he was finished with him then, that he’d finally be able to go back to the stains on the ceiling. Chatwin had other plans though, watching Quentin slice into his own flesh had awoken something in him. 

He grabbed Quentin by his wrist and spun him around, pressed his face into the wall. There was hardly time to realize what was happening before Quentin felt the searing pain of Chatwin forcing himself on him. He took him fast and rough, and knocked him down to the cold floor when he was finished. Chatwin zipped up his pants with a grunt and left the room without a uttering word, leaving Quentin lying in a heap. 

Quentin stayed like that for a long while, staring straight ahead at the plain white wall. He choked on sobs that wracked his body. When he couldn’t cry anymore he turned onto his back and searched for the little dog on the ceiling. _’One, two, three, four, five...’_ he chanted in his head as he counted the mud brown splotches above him. He was growing tired when Eliot drifted into his mind. He tried to remember the way his voice sounded first thing in the morning, straining to hear that scratchy _”hey baby,”_ he knew so well. But all he could hear was the words from their last fight.

 _”Quentin Coldwater, I forbid you from going to Siberia. That’s final.”_ Eliot growled at him that night.

Quentin remembered how furious that had made him. _”You forbid me? You don’t fucking own me, Eliot.”_

He shook his head, trying to force the memory away, and pressed his thumb into one of the new cuts on his arm, turning his gaze back to the ceiling. He searched for the spot he left off at and started counting again. _’One, two, three...’_ Quentin let the numbers lull him to sleep, he hoped he could dream of Eliot tonight.

———  
Quentin: Present Day  
———

Quentin could tell that Eliot was walking on eggshells around him since he’d come home. He had spent nearly a month in inpatient treatment after “the Shower Incident” before Dr. Lipson cleared him to leave. Now that he was back at the apartment, Eliot fussed over him constantly. He’d been back for over a week now and Quentin didn’t think he’d had more than ten minutes to himself in all that time, so he was surprised when he woke to an empty bed the night before. 

He wasn’t sure, exactly, what had made him open up to Eliot last night. He felt just a little bit lighter now though, a little less alone. Quentin woke that morning still wrapped in Eliot’s arms. He was shocked that it felt comforting today, rather than terrifying, waking up to someone’s touch. He nuzzled his face into Eliot’s neck, and Eliot planted a kiss on the top of his head.

“Hey baby, rise and shine,” Eliot murmured into his hair. 

Quentin gazed up at Eliot and took him in. The circles under his eyes were dark and his lids were heavy like he hadn’t slept a wink. “Jesus, you look like shit, El. Did you sleep at all last night?”

“Like a rock,” Eliot answered him with a smile. Quentin knew he was lying. “Breakfast?”

Downstairs in the kitchen, Quentin watched Eliot prepare a breakfast that was far too elaborate for a boring Monday morning. Something in his demeanor made Quentin uneasy. Had he shared too much the night before? He picked at the waffles Eliot set in front of him.

“You need to eat, Q,” Eliot scolded him when he noticed his mostly untouched plate.

Quentin rolled his eyes and shoveled a huge bite of scrambled eggs into his mouth. “Eliot is everything alright? You’re being kind of weird.”

“Everything’s perfect. Eat.”

He ate his breakfast quietly while Eliot paced around the kitchen, fiddling with this and that. Quentin wished he could read his mind, he seemed so off this morning. After he’d cleared his plate it was Eliot Who broke the silence.

“I need to make a few phone calls, will you be alright by yourself for a bit?”

“You mean am I going to try to kill myself if you leave me alone for more than ten minutes?” Eliot glared at him. “I’m fine, El. Go work, I’ll find something to do.”

Eliot loped off up the stairs to his office and Quentin settled into the L-shaped couch with a book. He knew Eliot was just worried about him, but he was relieved to finally have some time to himself without a babysitter. He cracked open the spine of his book and tried to lose himself in the pages but his mind was wandering. He’d expected Eliot to be upset after what he shared with him the night before, the chipper facade he saw this morning confused him. 

Quentin glanced down at the book in his hands, he’d read the same paragraph several times and had no idea what it said. He tried to focus again when he heard muffled shouting above him. Quentin crept up the stairs and padded softly down the hall. The door to Eliot’s office was closed, he pressed his ear against the dark wood.

“I don’t really give a shit what your plan is, Fogg.” Eliot’s raised voice was cold as steel. “I want him dead. If you even think about interfering, so help me-“

There was silence for a moment. Quentin wished he could hear the other half of the conversation. He couldn’t remember ever hearing Eliot get so angry.

“Fine. I’ll find him without your help. Oh, and you can go fuck yourself.” Something crashed behind the door. “FUCK!” 

Quentin heard Eliot shuffle around his office and he retreated back down the stairs, he didn’t want Eliot to catch him with his ear up to the door. He felt bad about eavesdropping, but he was just so tired of everyone treating him like a child, keeping him out of the loop. He could handle more than Eliot thought, he wasn’t made of glass. 

The sound of footsteps came from the stairwell and Quentin sat back down on the couch, tried to look interested in his book. Eliot rounded the corner of the living room and Quentin could see that he was fuming. His shoulders were rigid and his eyes were dark, he pinched the bridge of his nose as he walked.

“Eliot. Please, please tell me what’s wrong.”

“Nothing, baby, I’m peachy.” Eliot sat down beside him and draped an arm across Quentin’s shoulders. “What are you reading?”

Eliot wasn’t going to talk about what Quentin had heard inside his office, that much was clear. So Quentin launched into conversation about the book he’d barely been reading. He could tell that Eliot wasn’t really listening, he was somewhere else as he nodded along to Quentin’s voice. For the second time that morning Quentin wished he could read his lover’s mind.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey hey y’all. Guys I’m so sorry about what I did to Q in this chapter, don’t hate me. As always, pls enjoy :)


	8. Broken Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eliot is stewing in rage. Quentin is learning how to love him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work is on hiatus for the time being. I will come back to it at some point when I feel like I can properly move the story forward, I’m still missing...something. Sorry sorry sorry.

Chapter 8: Broken Love  
———  
Eliot: Present Day  
———

Since Quentin had come home, Eliot found he had to learn to live with him again. He was so different now. Of course, he was still his Q, but he scared more easily, he was quieter and more careful with his words. Eliot learned to knock before he entered a room, and never to come up to Quentin from behind. It seemed he learned something new every day. It didn’t matter to Eliot though, he still loved Quentin like he’d hung the stars.

There was a nagging in Eliot’s head lately, he felt it where his spine met his skull. It was the feeling of a subdued rage that he’d pushed aside- for now. Since Quentin had first opened up about what happened to him in Siberia, Eliot burned hot with anger. He was afraid of how it would affect Quentin so he hid it from him, and from himself. It would be dealt with when the time was right.

Eliot knew that Chatwin had treated Quentin horribly in those eight months. He wasn’t surprised to learn about most of what Quentin told him. He’d seen Chatwin work, he knew what he’d done, how he’d tortured him before Quentin even uttered the words. The thought of Chatwin’s hands on Quentin, hurting him, slicing into his skin, made Eliot’s blood boil. But he knew it needed to be heard, so he listened and held him and cried with him.

Tonight, they laid in bed together, Quentin wrapped in Eliot’s arms soundly asleep, exhausted from the sobs that shook him as he told his latest story. The anger wasn’t nagging at Eliot now, it was roaring in his head, blood pounded in his ears. Quentin had told him how Chatwin had touched him, had violated him. Eliot imagined Quentin with his face pressed into an icy wall while Chatwin forced himself on him, he pictured him heaped on the floor left broken and bleeding. He was sick with fury. He couldn’t ignore it any longer, Martin Chatwin had to die and Eliot would be the one to kill him.

Eliot slid his arm slowly from beneath Quentin and scooted himself softly off the bed. He padded barefoot down the hall to his office and silently shut the door. He glanced at the clock, it was two in the morning, he reached for his phone. Margo would be furious to have her precious sleep interrupted, but Eliot couldn’t wait. They needed to start planning yesterday. 

The phone rang twice and clicked. “Hanson,” Margo’s voice, slurred by sleep, came through the phone.

“Margo,” Eliot started, Margo cut him off.

“El, it’s the middle of the night, so help me God if this isn’t an emergency-“

“Just listen. It’s about Chatwin. I can’t find the bastard on my own, and I-“ Eliot choked on hot tears rising in his throat like bile. “Bambi I can’t go on knowing he’s out there. I can’t let him get away with what he did to my Q.”

Margo let out a knowing sigh, empathic with out being pitiful, Margo didn’t do pity well. “Oh, El, baby. You thinking I haven’t been looking? He’s not just your Q, you know.”

Eliot smiled at that. Margo was fierce, her enemies knew that all too well, the ones she loved knew it better. There was nothing, _nothing,_ Margo wouldn’t do for her family. If she was looking for Chatwin his days were numbered, and his end would be far from quick and painless.

“Do you have anything?” Eliot asked.

“Well, Fogg has done fuck all to help, says he has some plan for Chatwin. But momma doesn’t let any prick stop her from getting shit done, does she?” Eliot could practically hear her smirking. “He’s in the States, where I don’t know yet, but I’m getting closer. Kady and Julia are honing in him. We’re close El.”

“Not close enough,” Eliot replied gruffly. They wouldn’t be close enough until he had knife pressed to Chatwin’s throat.

“I won’t stop El. I’m going to find him for you. But right now there’s nothing you or I can do. Go be with Quentin, let me handle this baby.”

The knot at the base of Eliot’s skull loosened just a bit. “Thanks, Bambi.”

“Anything for you, El.” The phone clicked, and Eliot was left alone in the silence.

He took a moment to collect himself, to soothe the roar in his head back to a quiet nag. When he’d calmed himself a bit he headed to the bedroom and crept back into bed. Quentin stirred when Eliot pulled back the sheets. 

“You ok, El?” Quentin mumbled to him.

“Yeah baby, just had to use the bathroom.” Eliot pulled the blankets over himself and stroked his hand through Quentin’s long hair. Quentin nearly purred as he curled himself back up into Eliot’s side, pressed his face into his shoulder. 

Eliot felt Quentin let out a long breath, his arms squeezed him tight around the middle. “Eliot?”

“Mhm?”

“I love you.” Eliot felt tears prickling in his eyes, it was the first time he’d heard those words from Quentin in nearly a year.

“I love you too, Quentin. More than you could ever know.” He pulled the man closer and held him tight as they both drifted into sleep.

———  
Quentin: Present Day  
———

The morning sun peeked through the sheer bedroom curtains, the warm light streaked across the room. Quentin opened his eyes and squinted in the bright light. He rubbed his fists into his eyes and wiped the sleep away. By his side Eliot was sleeping like a dead man. Quentin thought he hadn’t seen the man sleep so soundly since he’d come home. He ran his fingers through Eliot’s messy curls, softly traced his thumb across his sharp cheekbone. Eliot didn’t even stir.

As sleep left him, Quentin noticed the hardness between his legs. He wanted to touch Eliot and be touched back, but the thought of intimacy like that nearly made him recoil with fear. He groaned. Would he ever be the same again? Would he be able to love Eliot with the same passion and hunger again?

He imagined how it would feel to touch Eliot again, to run his hand up the soft skin of his thigh. He thought of the feeling of Eliot’s velvet cock in his fingers remembered the way he could make Eliot come undone. He couldn’t think about how it would feel for Eliot to touch him, though. He wanted it so badly, like a man in a desert wants water. But the well had been poisoned by Chatwin. The thought of another man touching him, even Eliot, made his skin crawl. 

Quentin pressed a wet kiss to the hollow where Eliot’s neck met his shoulder. This was something he could handle, something he needed even. His own cock twitched with yearning. He trailed Eliot’s chest with tender kisses and felt the man stirring beneath him. 

“Good morning, sunshine,” Quentin smiled at him and touched his lips to Eliot’s. He felt Eliot smile against his kiss and he parted the man’s lips with his tongue, slipped it inside his mouth. Eliot gasped when Quentin twirled the tip of his tongue in his mouth. Quentin returned to kissing his neck.

“Baby-“ Eliot breathed, his breath hitched when Quentin moved his hand between his thighs.

Quentin sat up for a moment and looked into Eliot’s eyes, his hand didn’t move from the spot on his thigh.

“Don’t move, don’t touch me.” Quentin said in a breathy voice and Eliot answered with a nod. He slipped his fingers around the waistband of Eliot’s boxers, pulled them down and threw them aside. His own prick was aching to be touched and he cupped himself with one hand while he returned to Eliot’s growing erection.

He nearly laughed when he thought that this felt like his first time. He was nervous like a virgin, but he knew just how to make Eliot come apart, that much hadn’t changed. He pressed his fingers into the soft skin of Eliot’s thigh, moved down his chest as he trailed it with his tongue. He stopped just before he touched black curls. Quentin moved his hand up, and wrapped his fingers around Eliot who let out a throaty moan.

Quentin started slowly, savoring the feel of the pink shaft in his hand. He moved up and down, Eliot laid still beneath him with twitching hips. He could tell that Eliot was aching for more, resisting the urge to thrust into Quentin’s hand. He increased his pace, let his hand slide smoothly over the head of Eliot’s cock and back. Quentin looked down at Eliot, he gazed up at him under long lashes, his eyes were filled with warm lust.

Quentin moved to straddle Eliot and shifted down the bed. He hesitated for a moment, then ran his tongue around the head of Eliot’s erection. Eliot shuddered and Quentin wrapped his lips around him. His taste was so familiar, so safe, that Quentin didn’t feel scared anymore. He let himself move up and down Eliot’s cock, his tongue traced the underside with each pass. He wrapped a hand around his own cock and pumped in rhythm with the pace of his mouth.

Eliot was nearly falling over the edge when Quentin pulled his mouth away, he felt Eliot tense beneath him. Quentin moved himself upward so they were face to face, their erections pressed against each other. He pushed his tongue back into Eliot’s mouth and rocked his hips back and forth. Their cocks moved against each, slick from Quentin’s saliva. Eliot, so close from what Quentin had done with his mouth came first and Quentin soon followed. He didn’t move, stayed pressed against Eliot, their mess between them, and wrapped his arms around Eliot’s neck.

Eliot reached toward Quentin’s face with hesitation. “Can I touch you?” He asked, and Quentin nodded.

Eliot stroked Quentin’s cheek and brushed shaggy hair from his eyes. He placed a soft kiss to Quentin’s forehead, then to his lips. 

“You are so perfect, Quentin,” Eliot murmured into another kiss. “I love you.”

Quentin sighed and pressed into Eliot’s lips, when he pulled away there were tears welling in his eyes. “I love you too, Eliot. So much.” He turned rested his cheek against Eliot chest, Eliot stoked his fingers down his back. They both drifted back into sleep and Quentin thought he might come back from this after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if this is a grammatical mess, I did a brief proofread but just really wanted to get this out for y’all. I love this chapter and I love Quentin. You know the drill, pls enjoy :)


End file.
